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tiaragqueen · 4 years

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Ferae Naturae

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Bakeneko! Sakuya x Reader

✂ Word Count: 1,4k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Death, arson, possessiveness, implied abuse

[Edited]

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A longer version of my old story, Get Even, with a lot few tweaks here and there. And I finally got to use my favorite word here. I present to you my favorite darling, Sakuya! Above is his human form.

“I promise you're safe with me. You're not alone. You're safe with me. Your heart is home. Now and forever, I'll be your shelter.” - Safe With Me [Megan Nicole]

Sakuya never really understood why most humans always stayed or returned to the person who had hurt them, even when the said person had blatantly displayed no sign of repentance. Irrefutable matters such as consanguinity must’ve played a huge factor in their so-called ‘loyalty’, he supposed, but it still didn’t justify their self-destructive actions. The way they behaved as though nothing was wrong and deliberately allowed their pain to fester under a veneer of tolerance was exasperating and absurd at best, even for him who tended to observe from the distance.

Then again, Sakuya wasn’t born in a human family, anyway. There was only so much he could learn from their lives without actually experiencing them.

But he knew enough to know that hitting his owner was an unforgivable sin; one that deserved an equal punishment.

“You never do anything right!”

A sturdy man, whom Sakuya learned his name was Araki, shouted. He had been doing this ever since he came home and found that you hadn’t cooked dinner because you were exhausted from cleaning the house all day. Granted, it was a humble cabin in the middle of a forest, but for someone to clean all the nooks and crannies while doing other tasks proved to be taxing. Sakuya knew it, too, because he’d seen just how tirelessly you worked every day with little rest and appreciation. All you’d gotten was more and more complaints from that bastard of a husband, sometimes elevating to verbal abuse. Sakuya wondered why and how you bore such an attitude for a long time and stuck with him when you could have someone better.

If it were him, he’d surely leave without a second thought. Better yet, kill him.

But, alas, you were too meek. Under the pretense of loyalty, you accepted everything from him – every word, every beating, every overt manipulation – and toiled even harder. However, Sakuya wasn’t a fool. He was fully aware of your insecurities and fears; of being incompetent, of being abandoned, of being lonely. Although you already had him, a cat that had been spending time with you more than your own husband, you remained hopelessly in love with the latter.

And, honestly, Sakuya couldn’t fault you. It wasn’t easy to separate a wife from her husband due to the finality of marriage, and the only way would be death.

Would it be worth the effort, though? It wasn’t as if you were blind to Araki's vices, anyway. Rather, you accepted them wholeheartedly and believed he’d change someday despite the lack of progress. You loved and married him, knowing full well you’d plunge yourself into a turbulent life. Heck, you’d even confessed it to Sakuya! You weren’t naïve and acknowledged that your love story was far from perfect or even good.

You comprehended the result of marrying such a rough man, which meant, you also comprehended his treatment towards you.

However, wrath defenestrated every understanding and sense the moment Araki raised a hand to slap you. Normally, Sakuya wouldn’t bother much with domestic violence because he wasn’t attached to either of them. But you were his owner – no, belonging – and he protected what was his, regardless of the consequences.

Sakuya hissed and leaped to Araki’s face, swiping the delicate skin ferociously. He didn’t even use his real claws, but the current ones were enough to provoke a stream of curses and groans from Araki.

Your eyes swelled, torn between intervening and doing nothing. Should you help him? You didn’t want to get scratched too, but your cat was clearly and purposefully harming him for unknown reasons. Maru usually left whenever an argument arose and returned when Araki had exited the room. It’d become such a pattern until you believed that he’d recognized human quarrel and learned to avoid it to maintain his peace.

Cats weren’t entirely stupid, after all. Although his constant, almost acrid, glare towards Araki was a little strange, to begin with.

Finally, Araki was able to yank Sakuya from his bleeding visage and flung him against the wall. You gasped and rushed to his aid, examining his tiny body for any sign of grievous injuries. Araki was enraged with the way you prioritized him than your husband who clearly displayed raw gashes, and grabbed you by the collar of your kimono.

“Oh, so you care about that dumb cat more than me, huh?” he snarled through ground teeth, his glower intensified when you shook your head frantically. “What? You’re in love with it or something? Well, why don’t you live with it then?”

Araki seized Sakuya by the scruff of his neck and dragged you both to the porch. “This is where disobedient wife sleeps!” he declared, dropping Sakuya on to your lap carelessly. “Hope you enjoy your stay.”

You watched his retreating back helplessly and flinched when he slammed the door shut. Pursing your trembling lips, you looked down and caressed Sakuya’s dark fur as a poor attempt of solace.

“It’s alright, now. You’re safe,” you whispered, trying to ignore the slight quiver within your voice. “He’ll be in a better mood tomorrow, and then we can go back inside. We just have to endure sleeping here for tonight.”

‘He’ll be in a better mood tomorrow’. Did that mean he’d locked you out before? Did that mean he’d slapped you before? Sakuya had only met you around a month ago, but it was enough to show him everything he needed to know regarding your daily life.

And with this new information, came another surge of fury strong enough to shapeshifted him into a human.

You could only gape at the sight of his dainty body burst to reveal a leaner, paler one underneath. His hair remained its raven sheen, but the cat ears were probably the sole thing to pinpoint his genuine form. Had the latter weren’t present, you would’ve thought this was his true appearance instead. His eyes were yellow with black slits, smoldering under the tranquil moonlight. He had a boyish face, but his aura suggested otherworldliness and ancient. You averted your gaze from traveling lower, noticing the lack of… fur to cover his private area.

“Are you… my cat?” Would it be foolish of you to ask that? No. That was just natural, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as though you knew what else to say after witnessing what would be a staggering transformation in your whole life.

“Duh,” he retorted. “I’m human. Can you see?”

Yes, you could recognize it perfectly; every detail, except his ears and irises, that just screamed a human throughout. And you didn’t know how to respond to his quip or react.

Then, you spotted it. A large tail, flicking behind him and left a trail of flame in the air. A cat’s tail. How you didn’t notice it before, especially with its substantial size, was beyond your perception.

“Maru, why are there fire on your tail?” you asked shakily.

“I wonder…” he drawled lazily, much to your chagrin. There was a spark of panic that ignited within you when the tail shot up and flared in the sky. “Oh, the name’s Sakuya, by the way.”

His name breezed past your ears at the same speed of his tail that swept your house. The fire kindled your dilated eyes and parched your throat from screaming or uttering anything. You listened to the frenzied screams of your husband and the constant tugging at the front door. The desperation wrenched your heart, but there was nothing you could do than standing and let the blaze engulfed the cabin you once called ‘home’.

You just realized how powerful Maru, no, Sakuya was. Even his grasp on your arms and flinty stare rendered you immobile throughout the arson.

Once the smoke cleared up and exposed the soot and chars littering the ground, you wilted against his grip. Sakuya instinctively kneeled to free your body from its invisible pressure and hugged you, whispering sweet nothings. You stared blankly at the debris despite his solace to break your composure, the shock hindered you from processing the situation properly. It wasn’t long before you broke down, however, and wailed on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, now. You’re safe.” Sakuya mimicked the words you’d spoken to comfort him earlier. It was excruciating to remember how fast the tables had turned, and how your lovely pet soon became your killer.

Sakuya buried his face on your shoulder and smiled, relishing the proximity now that the bastard was no longer exist to separate you both.

Because that was how it should be the moment he encountered you in that riverside; a diligent yet fatigued woman who kept washing the clothes despite the setting sun.

“… I’m here now, [Name], and I’ll always be.”

Sakuya: 昨夜

Araki: 荒木

Maru: まる

#yandere scenario #yandere imagine #yandere oneshot #Yandere bakeneko #yandere bakeneko x reader #yandere yokai #yandere youkai #My writing #yandere oc #yandere original character

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apparitionism · 4 years

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Hark 3

The new year has hit me pretty hard, work-wise, so I apologize to @kla1991 and everyone else (including @bering-and-wells-exchange ) for my lack of timely continuation. This is the third part of my attempt at a holiday story, which began its cacophony in part 1 and continued, similarly unharmoniously, in part 2. There’ll be a fourth-part denouement, delayed mostly because it concludes in a conversation that I want to make sing in a way that it’s not quite doing yet. Patience may or may not actually be a virtue, but it’s much appreciated all the same.

Hark 3

Myka took a similarly dark view of Pete’s next idea: “If mistletoe’s a no-go,” he said, “on account of this being one of these, how about we chuck an artifact that makes them sing? I’ll aim for Myka’s head, then Steve can rebound and hit H.G. Gotta be some karaoke something-or-other that’d do that, right?”

“That wouldn’t fix anything,” Leena said, like she knew it for a fact. Myka wanted to ask her not “what else do you know,” but rather “do you know everything,” the answer to which was probably “yes, if you mean everything that’s relevant to this excruciating exercise.” Comforting, in its way. Also inconvenient, because it implied that part of the “everything” she knew was that Myka and Helena would have to sing. Of their own volition.

Claudia said, “Even though I didn’t know there was a these—proving that nobody tells me anything, and I promise someday that’s coming back to bite all of you—and even though Pete doesn’t want me on his artifact-ball team—”

“Steve’s taller,” Pete said.

“And that’s coming back to bite you too. Someday. But for now, I’m gonna be the magical elf who fixes it. H.G., what’s the lesson of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”

“Children are not immune from existential despair,” Helena said immediately.

Myka resented how endearing she found that.

Claudia sighed and said, “Why are you always right, but not like I want you to be?” Myka resented how true she found that. Claudia went on, “Okay, smarty, what’s another lesson?”

“One’s so-called friends are likely to scorn one’s attempts to celebrate the season.”

Not quite as endearing. Still right.

“But eventually they come around,” Claudia pronounced. “C’mon, H.G. Be the Linus you wish to see in the world. Or I guess you should be the Linus everybody other than you, or you and Myka, wish to see? Anyway, my point is, what’s the true meaning of Christmas?”

Helena’s hands rose to her temples again as she said, “But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only.”

Myka said, “I’m pretty sure it starts ‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field.’” She tried to mitigate her knee-jerk know-it-all-ness by offering, weakly, “I mean, if you’re really being the Linus.”

“I think H.G.’s flaunting again,” said Steve.

“I am repurposing,” Helena said. “A verse from the Epistle of James, as a Christmas thing. Being the sole Victorian representative, I claim the privilege.”

“Also you’re a pretty committed flaunter,” Myka said, because it was the case—and that too was knee-jerk, for she did not bear in mind, for the split second she said it, the full situation they were in. She’d said it as a tease, and they were nowhere near safe teasing ground.

But Helena’s mood had shifted—possibly because of Charlie Brown reasons, which possibly meant that Claudia really was a magical elf—for she said, “True. And truce? For the length of a verse: together as doers of the word, and not hearers only.”

“Fine,” Myka grudged. “But only so Claudia quits looking at us like we stole Christmas. And I pity the hearers.”

“As do I,” Helena said, solemn.

Claudia passed her phone to Helena. Myka leaned to read with her the words of the next verse. They both inhaled, looked at each other, and said “you start” at the same time. After a chorus of “geez,” “come on,” and similar from the annoying people who could actually sing (and who thus weren’t about to make fools of themselves), they gave up and got on with it.

And so they together submitted, in Wenceslasment:

“O dilecta domina, cur sic alienaris? An nescis, o carissima, quod sic adamaris? Si tu esses Helena, vellem esse Paris! Tamen potest fieri noster amor talis.”

The ensuing silence was eloquent enough, but Pete put it into words: “That’s a wow from me. I had no idea anything could sound that bad. Start to finish, next-level awful.”

“Thanks,” Myka said.

“You’re welcome. Seriously, if that was ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ then I’m good King Wenceslas.”

“And yet I feel like that did it? Made it happy?” Steve said, and Leena agreed with him.

Claudia said, “So I guess we’re calling Pete ‘good King Dub’ from now on.”

“I’m into it,” Pete said, “and my first royal decree is, I want to know what they just made it happy singing—or I guess I mean ‘singing’—about. Somewhere in the scary noises I heard ‘Helena,’ so something’s up.”

Helena said, “I have Latin, and I would rather not say.”

“So do I,” Myka said. “And ditto.”

“But for the rest of the class.” Claudia grabbed her phone back. “Okay, here’s what some guy Symonds said it meant, way back in, wait for it, ye olde Victorian times.”

Helena startled: a tiny upturn of chin. “John Symonds?”

“Yeah. Know him?”

“Not well. Mutual friends... he was an advocate of so-called ‘Greek love.’”

Pete’s eyebrows rose. “Going to Greece to get all hey-hey? Like a vacation?”

“Not... precisely that. Although not not that, I imagine.”

Steve chortled. Then he schooled his expression and said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for understanding such euphemisms. This sole representative appreciates it.”

Claudia, not to be deterred, said, “Oh, like he’s the only one who got it. But speaking of getting it, because whoever was singing about the time of flowers clearly wanted to.” She then intoned, “O my chosen one, why dost thou shun me? Dost thou not know, dearest, how much thou art loved? If thou wert Helen, I would be Paris. So great is our love that it can be so.” Hearing that diction in Claudia’s voice was strange... but she reverted to normal with, “That’s some business. You certainly do get around, H.G.”

“I am not Helen of Troy, thank you.”

“You sure?” Pete said. “I heard she was hot, just like you.” He bumped Helena in the shoulder.

“Hey!” Myka objected—about the shoulder-bump as well as the “hot.” But more the “hot.”

“She is though! And I thought so first.”

“You did not,” Myka said.

Helena said, “That sounds like a veiled offense.”

“I saw you before he did,” Myka told her. “And anyone who sees you...” She would have gone on, but her ears had begun to burn, a sure sign she was about to head into the “saying too much out loud” zone.

Helena blinked herself to understanding, and Myka was gratified that she seemed a little flustered too as she said, “Oh. Well. That is... complimentary.”

That first sight... Myka had not felt anything recognizable as love at that sight; rather, she’d felt a sense, something that she now considered a flutter from the future. Their first interaction, in its entirety, had made no sense at all, primarily on the obvious “H.G. Wells?!?” level, but also in its subterranean murmur, which Myka could not parse, could not even fathom, not until years later when she understood what her body had been trying to tell her. What it had decided it wanted.

Because she could not help herself, she had recently asked Helena a version of “What did you know and when did you know it?” Because the Helena of that earliest part remained an opacity, one about whom Myka was endlessly curious, and asking obliquely about desire rather than baldly about deception seemed a safer way in.

Helena gave the question some thought, making Myka glad she had asked, for being able to prompt Helena to real thought was a prize. “Something sparked for me when you said, ‘H.G. Wells is a woman. I’m going to have to process this.' Because of course I was myself working to ‘process’ that H.G. Wells was not a woman, if you can see at all what I mean.”

“Not quite,” Myka admitted.

“At that point I hadn’t entirely absorbed the history, the idea that Charles had so fully become... him. Me? That time had rendered any distance between Charles and... what I mean is, I had not ‘processed’ that I myself, as myself, would be so utterly forgotten.” She paused. “And then that you would... ‘process.’ That word, used as a verb of cogitation, seemed so deliberate, so new, so singular, as if you’d invented such usage solely as a response to me.”

Helena lied with great facility; Myka did know that about her approach to deception. This sort of hesitant, cautious talk usually connoted truth—here, a truth flattering to Myka. “I wish I had invented it,” she said. New usages, new words, an entirely new language; she should have realized that all of these would come to seem necessary. “And I’m sorry if this shouldn’t be true, but I’m perversely glad to have this secret knowledge. About you. As yourself.” That was a prize too—the luxurious exclusivity of her knowledge, her behind-the-velvet-rope version of H.G. Wells.

“That you are one of the few who do have it is so pleasing to me that I would write a novel about it.”

“I thought you supplied the research,” Myka said, trying to distract herself from the suddenly all-consuming idea that H.G. Wells, in whatever incarnation, had just mentioned writing a novel about something even vaguely related to Myka Bering.

“As if I couldn’t have written those books? I simply didn’t have the time, and Charles did. But I have already compiled extensive research regarding yourself—and your ability to process.”

Myka’s own clearest spark-point had occurred when Helena had looked her up and down—so very thoroughly up and down that Myka had felt that look as a full scan of her very self, a magnetic, resonant measure-taking. Helena hadn’t looked at Pete like that. Myka had clung to that look, had continued to cling to it, more tightly than she probably should have, when she was wishing inchoately but bodily for things she couldn’t let herself know she had decided she wanted.

So Myka said, in the interest of truth-telling, “That you checked me out was pretty pleasing too.”

Yet another prize: a playful “Is that what I did?”

“More thoroughly than anybody ever has.”

“Then it seems I have some secret knowledge of my own.”

“You do,” Myka said, and: “I’m glad it’s you.” Myka wanted no one else to know any of it. Her own velvet rope, behind which no one else.

“When does this end, exactly?” Pete asked. “Not that it isn’t fun.��

“When we’ve done enough,” Leena said.

“And when’s that?” Myka asked in turn. “Because it isn’t fun.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s when Claudia feels that we have.”

Claudia groaned out, “Did Mrs. Frederic have to do this kind of thing?”

Leena said, “I wouldn’t know. Now, are we finished yet?”

“Something about infotech,” Claudia muttered. She started walking.

“Narrows it down,” Steve said, and he followed her, disciple-like.

As did they all. They walked and walked.

“Really old infotech,” Claudia said, so they kept walking.

They passed early computers, including the wall-sized Harvard Mark I; telephones and the switchboards that linked them; calculators, slide rules, Napier’s bones; Babbage’s Difference Engine and Leibniz’s Machine. Claudia dismissed it all: “No, no, no,” she chanted. “None of this. Where are you, pesky upset tech?”

At last she halted. “Okay. You?” And in response to some response, she nodded. “This is it. “

It was a structure that looked like a modernist desk crossed with a medieval torture device. “Gutenberg’s printing press,” Myka breathed, in reverence—not that she needed to say it out loud. Well, maybe for Pete.

“Really?” he said, proving her point. “Pretty much the O.G. of infotech then.”

“Actually we passed a bunch of abaci,” she noted, “which are a lot older than—”

“Ix-nay,” Pete said. “This big fella clearly needs a little jog to the self-esteem. What’s its Christmas deal, though?”

Claudia said, “And so the overburdened Caretaker-in-training got her Wikipedia on one more time.”

“No need,” Helena told her. “This one, I know.”

“You’re certainly a more reliable source,” Myka said.

“It worked, professor,” Claudia said. “What’s the Yuletide word, other professor?”

“There is a cantata commemorating Gutenberg’s invention. Written by Mendelssohn, sometime midcentury? Mid my century, that is... the ‘Festgesang.’ Also known as the Gutenberg Cantata.”

Claudia said, “I think I know how this song goes, and by now everybody can sing it with me: the Victorians stole it for Christmas. Right?”

“Part of the melody, yes. To accompany a Christmas hymn known as ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.’ Do you—no. I was about to ask if you know it, but again we return to A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“Everybody knows it,” Pete said.

“H.G., are you sure all of this song-stealing wasn’t you and your Warehouse 12 buddies?” Claudia asked. “Some super-secret Christmas-invention mission?”

Helena made a face. “Would I be surprised to learn that I had been manipulated into helping such a thing coalesce? Of course not. The Warehouse does enjoy the power generated by a holiday.”

Leena nodded. “Lots of belief. Collectively.”

I am so tired of belief, Myka thought.

“I hope we don’t have to sing whatever the German words are,” Steve said. “I took German in high school and nearly flunked out.”

“Learning lots of new things about you today, BFF,” Claudia commented. “Maybe this isn’t Caretaker practice at all; maybe it’s about us needing to get to know your whole big complicated sax-playing, Wenceslas-hating, German-flunking self. And since when are you a flunker?”

“Something about the word order made me nervous. Like I was always having to untangle what was true. My fault, obviously, not German’s, but I’ve got bad associations, so maybe we could just go with the carol?” He tried, in melodious English, “Hark, the herald angels sing,” then paused, waited. “It doesn’t seem to mind that too much. It isn’t placated yet, though.”

Leena said, “Maybe it doesn’t matter which words we sing.” She tried the next measure as a series of la-las, then stopped and considered. “That wasn’t bad either. I’m guessing it considers the melody Mendelssohn’s real tribute.”

“That’s funny,” said Pete. To multiples of “why,” he answered, “That a printing press doesn’t care about words.”

Helena laughed. “You make an excellent point,” she said. Then, to Myka, “Doesn’t he?”

“He... does,” Myka had to concede.

And in agreeing that Pete made an excellent point, they were, however improbably, pulled extremely close to accord. Myka was barely able to refrain from grasping Helena’s hand again, this time to deal with the depth of her relief that they had... “reconciled” was the word that came to mind, though that probably had more to do with the carol they either were or weren’t about to sing the English words of.

Then again, what was wrong with reconciling, as a word, or as a concept? And so she asked herself why she was refraining. No good answer occurred to her, so she did in fact firmly take Helena’s hand.

Helena didn’t smirk, didn’t eyebrow, didn’t even look at Myka. But she did grip back. Then she went on, with a newly rich note in her voice, “I do think I understand: the press wants it known that the melody was intended to bring glory to it, not to this set of words or that one. And certainly the conceptual majesty of the printed word outglories any newborn baby in a manger, regardless of that infant’s kingship.”

“You’re definitely not being religious now,” Steve said.

“The press brought the Bible to the people, so it has a case for primacy on that score as well.”

“But that baby in the manger saved humankind,” he protested.

Claudia snickered. “I like how nobody’s being religious. Supposedly.”

“We are discussing religion,” Helena starched out. “A different philosophical undertaking entirely.”

“Instead let’s discuss what to sing,” Leena said, “because we’ll be singing together this time. Should it be about the newborn king?”

Helena said, “Not to upset my discursive partner, but the original German is about Gutenberg himself as a sort of savior. His glorious bringing of light into the darkness via the press.”

“If we have to,” Steve said.

“Although,” Helena mused, “I suppose that to sing about Gutenberg’s actions would be to glorify him, rather than the press as such. Perhaps that’s why it doesn’t care about words.”

“How about we split the difference?” Myka offered.

“What’s the difference between an English carol and a German cantata?” Steve asked. “Sounds like a really esoteric riddle.”

Myka said, “Let’s sing the alphabet.” The resulting confused expressions indicated that her very-clear-to-her idea wasn’t quite the beacon of obviousness she’d thought. “Connects all the dots, don’t you figure? Because what’s movable type?”

Helena looked at her like she, Myka, was the one who’d brought light into the darkness. She raised Myka’s hand, which she still held, to her mouth and kissed it. “Lovely,” she said, and although Myka still didn’t exactly feel like singing, she did find herself in a much greater mood to make a joyful noise.

Once the singing—or “singing”—began, they all had different ideas about syllabication, none of which entirely joined into a full cantata-appropriate chorus, but they did end up on “X-Y-Z!” for “re-con-ciled” on their first march through the alphabet, then moved on to the “Joy-ful all ye na-tions ri-ise” part with a rousing “Ay-bee cee dee eee-eff gee-ee!” Everyone was laughing by the time they finished, and Leena said, “Unless I’m misinterpreting, the press is as delighted as we are.” Even Myka, untuneful as she knew she’d been, couldn’t stop grinning... and, as she regarded a similarly smiling Helena, she wanted to be pelted with mistletoe for the right reasons.

Claudia looked up and around, as if snow had begun to fall. She said, “And I think we’re done. Unless anybody’s still unthrilled?” She asked the question of the Warehouse in general, the air around them.

The air held motionless.

Myka said, “I’m still unthrilled that we had to do this at all. I don’t know how Santa feels about anything, but Pete’s on my naughty list.”

“Aren’t you, however?” Helena asked. “Thrilled, in some small part?” To be back in accord, the sparkle in her eyes said.

Well, all right, she was. “You’re taking advantage of how this feels like a holiday now.”

“In Pete’s defense, and my apologies for uttering that phrase, as well as the one that now follows: his intentions were good.”

“There is a road to a place,” Myka said, “and that road is paved. I won’t name the place, but I think you and I and people who had to listen to us sing were recently in its vicinity.”

“Myka. You just now said it feels like a holiday. And it is also now certain that we will never forget this, our first Christmas together.”

“I like how everyone always forgets that I will never forget anything,” Myka complained.

“But sometimes you don’t keep things top of mind,” Steve said, with his particular delicacy.

“You didn’t forget that?”

“I’m not you, but I was paying attention.”

Myka said, “I appreciate it,” and, noting an inquiring eyebrow from Helena, told her, “I’ll explain later.”

Helena nodded and dropped the eyebrow. She said, “So perhaps a more meaningful statement is that I will never forget this, our first Christmas together. And I am being religious, though only slightly, when I say that it all—having such a Christmas, having this somewhat ear-splitting memory—is a blessing.”

“I knew you’d be all sentimental about Christmas, H.G.!” Pete crowed. “I knew it! Which is I bet why the Messiah figured I’d be all into saving Christmas. And which, FYI, I’m still pretty sure I did, Mrs. and Mrs. Bickerson.”

“Please,” Leena said, “not the M-word.”

“Mrs.?” Pete asked, in obvious confusion. “Should it be ‘Ms. and Ms.’ instead? I don’t know how to be sensitive.”

“That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said,” Myka told him. “Pay attention! You’re the one who just made noise about what tapped you for doing this supposed saving.”

“Messiah!” he shouted, like she’d acted it out in charades.

“Well, that’s re-agitated the press a bit,” Helena said, and to the mechanism, she spoke a single word: “Hark.” That word, said by that voice, was at the same time arresting and soothing. Something to heed. “Or, if you prefer, ‘A’,” Helena offered. Also something to heed. Myka’s ears informed her, by way of further burning, that they would in fact listen avidly to Helena reciting the alphabet. That they would find her doing so to be both arresting and soothing and arousing as well. Not surprising, ears, she told them.

“Speaking of sensitive,” Leena said, “the press is.”

“Aren’t we all,” Claudia affirmed.

“It has more right,” Helena said. “No holiday stole Mendelssohn’s music about any of us.”

“He did score a Midsummer,” Myka said. It was one of the few Mendelssohn facts she knew. “So technically about a Helena.”

That made Leena laugh. “We’ll see what happens if anyone ever puts Christmas lyrics to it.”

Myka said, “I really don’t think she needs a lot of help getting agitated,” and Pete put on an expression of concern. “No, Pete, that’s not what I mean.” Then he grinned. “And that’s not either.”

“What we should encourage Pete to do next year, however, is complete his inventory in a timely fashion,” Helena said, and to Claudia, “A timely supervised fashion, hm?”

“Sorry,” Claudia said, seemingly sincerely. Then she perked up. “But we’ve got happy artifacts and that’s still next in the stack, so let’s go home and play!”

Back at the B&B, just before the playing of Sorry commenced, Myka whispered that word to Helena, with whom she was to play, as that team Claudia had proposed—seemingly forever, but really only hours, before. That word, “Sorry,” followed by “I really am.” Helena didn’t whisper it back, but she did murmur, “Don’t be.”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #Hark #part 3 #kla1991 #bering and wells holiday gift exchange

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metalgearkong · 5 years

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Game of Thrones: Season 8 Thoughts & Review

5/20/19 **spoilers**

Produced by David Benioff & DB Weiss (HBO)

It took me a few years to actually begin watching Game of Thrones after it came out, but once I did, I became a die-hard fan, and even started reading the books. This series truly felt like a post-modern take on Lord of the Rings or any other high fantasy properties in the best possible way. The complex and gray morality, clever dialog, intrigue, backstabbing, dramatic character changes, and authentic production vales help make this one of the best TV shows of all time. Seeing the bad guys constantly get the upper hand on people much more honorable and virtuous has a strange addictive quality to it, I believe because it made you hunger for justice that much more.

While George R.R. Martin is still working on the 5th book in the series, show runners David Benioff and DB Weiss quite literally ran out of material to draw from. This was the slow but eventual collapse of the quality of Game of Thrones. Everyone who worked on the show should be applauded for the amazing prop, set, costume design, music, cinematography, and great acting, but it was the dialog, intrigue, and subversion that truly made the show special. Pulling dialog from the books felt like the easy part when compared to casting, acting, and everything visual and audio that goes into making the show. I was a big fan of seasons 1-6 (topped off with the epic Battle of the Bastards), but season 7 and 8 have been nearly unbearable.

From the out of character dialog and choices, to disappointing resolutions, to outright illogical plot progression, Game of Thrones seasons 7 & 8 have been felt like a jarring shift in priorities for the producers. Spectacle and special effects seem to have taken over. Now, with season 8 finally concluded, the final season of one of the most successful and popular TV shows of all time, I can give my true thoughts to how this grand series has come to a close. Unlike many reviews of this show online, I will avoid all hyperbole and exaggeration in my opinions, so as to be as honest as possible.

Season 8 didn’t truly piss me off until episode 3 with the Battle of Winterfell. The Night King, White Walkers, and army of the dead have been the big overarching threat for the entire world, ever since the show began. Part of why Jon Snow was ostracized so much is because he was one of the few people who believed in the White Walker threat. Banding together the Seven Kingdoms seemed like the point of the show, in a way that the petty squabbling, greed, and power meant nothing compared to total annihilation. I thought this conflict would have taken place at the end of the season as well, symbolizing what truly matters means much more than, quite literally, games of thrones.

But apparently not. The White Walkers and wights entirely rendered extinct with one stab of a dagger, their leader, the oh-so-built-up Night King, had no personality, no motive, no explanation, and we didn’t even get to see him properly fight. On a more thematic level, he and Jon never got a chance to spar or have a heart to heart. Jon spent the entire battle either flying around on his dragon, then being pinned down behind some rubble. Arya, who I think is a very cool and capable character, defies all logic and thematic purpose, and flies out of nowhere, delivering the killing blow to the Night King. Not only does she instantly kill him, but every White Walker and wight. Effectively, the writers got themselves out of a logistical nightmare and just proclaimed all the bad guys to be defeated at once.

I don’t necessarily mind Arya doing it, but I take huge offense to how it happened. Her entire story from the show’s inception had nothing to do with White Walkers or larger existential threats. She was all about training and getting revenge on the people who have so deeply wronged her and her family. It was Jon’s story that had everything to do with honor and being a good enough leader to gather the world together to defeat this mythical threat. From a more grounded standpoint, why also, even if Arya ran through a courtyard filled with White Walkers and leaped close enough to kill the Night King, why then when he spun around and grabbed her, did she not turn into a White Walker? We’ve seen this happen many times that the Night King simply has to touch you to instantly convert you. How cool would it have been if Arya, this epic badass, now was on the side of the enemy and had to be put down by the people she loved?

Cleaning up after the battle, Jaime hooks up with Brienne of Tarth, only to immediately leave her for Cersi. Of course, in between episodes, the entire world thought it was a trick so he could get close to Cersi and kill her, fitting with his character and who he’s become to be. But nope, turns out he truly did hit it and quit it with Brienne, and not only did Jaime go back to Cersi, they both die under the crumbling keep. This is one of the biggest character assassinations (figuratively) I’ve seen since Luke in The Last Jedi. Jaimie went from being a scumbag knight to champion of the downtrodden, only to revert back to Cersi at the last moment at the height of his redemption. This season has so many idiotic moments I can’t even remember them all.

I actually don’t mind at all with the direction Daenerys’ character went. I felt it was always going to be her fate as a Targaryan and daughter of the Mad King to massacre people in her conquest for the throne. After she fights her whole life for what she wants and feels she is entitled to, Daenerys finds out she isn’t even the true heir, and that Jon is. The extra frustrating part for her, is that Jon doesn’t even want the throne, and now practically everyone knows she doesn’t have the right to be Queen. On top of all of it, Jon doesn’t even want to sleep with her, knowing she is his aunt, but she doesn’t care, as that’s never really stopped Targaryans before (and in fact I think most of the time they aim to keep their bloodline as pure as possible). All of this lead to her snapping and burning King’s Landing. I get it, and I think its a fitting arch for her character.

I also fully expected Jon to kill Dany someday because she would grow too power hungry. The death itself was underwhelming, but why in god’s name did Drogon not then kill Jon? The Dothraki and Unsullied would have never let Jon live after doing that. And then after everything he’s gone through: resurrection, uniting kingdoms, becoming warden of the north, realizing he’s a Targaryan, he’s sent back to the Wall (and by his own brother!) And I suppose Arya is just Columbus now, sailing west until she hits the back side of Essos. The show wrapped up far more neatly and happy than I ever expected, and it makes me want to finish reading the books to see how the events “truly” happened.

I wont say it’s all bad. I was quite physically on the edge of my seat for every minute of this season. It had my full attention and engagement despite constantly subverting my expectations in the worst possible ways. The season did have some highlights and some stand-out moments, but not nearly of the same ratio as it used to. One of my favorite moments of all Game of Thrones was in the final episode when Tyrion describes stores as what turly brings people together, not war or banners or violence. And as he said this, I recalled all the friendships made or that have been evolved, not only because of Game of Thrones, but other TV shows, movies, video games, and so on. It felt like something right out of George R.R. Martin’s philosophy and I loved that message. But you’re only as good as your final performance and unfortunately Game of Thrones ended on an epic slow death. I love the show for so many reasons but it makes me less inclined to go back and watch it again knowing what it all accumulated to.

5/10

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dfroza · 5 years

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A blank page is seen

in Today’s reading of chapter [8] of the ancient writing of Isaiah:

Then God told me, “Get a big sheet of paper and write in indelible ink, ‘This belongs to Maher-shalal-hash-baz (Spoil-Speeds-Plunder-Hurries).’”

I got two honest men, Uriah the priest and Zechariah son of Jeberekiah, to witness the document. Then I went home to my wife, the prophetess. She conceived and gave birth to a son.

God told me, “Name him Maher-shalal-hash-baz. Before that baby says ‘Daddy’ or ‘Mamma’ the king of Assyria will have plundered the wealth of Damascus and the riches of Samaria.”

God spoke to me again, saying:

“Because this people has turned its back

on the gently flowing stream of Shiloah

And gotten all excited over Rezin

and the son of Remaliah,

I’m stepping in and facing them with

the wild floodwaters of the Euphrates,

The king of Assyria and all his fanfare,

a river in flood, bursting its banks,

Pouring into Judah, sweeping everything before it,

water up to your necks,

A huge wingspan of a raging river,

O Immanuel, spreading across your land.”

But face the facts, all you oppressors, and then wring your hands.

Listen, all of you, far and near.

Prepare for the worst and wring your hands.

Yes, prepare for the worst and wring your hands!

Plan and plot all you want—nothing will come of it.

All your talk is mere talk, empty words,

Because when all is said and done,

the last word is Immanuel—God-With-Us.

[A Boulder Blocking Your Way]

God spoke strongly to me, grabbed me with both hands and warned me not to go along with this people. He said:

“Don’t be like this people,

always afraid somebody is plotting against them.

Don’t fear what they fear.

Don’t take on their worries.

If you’re going to worry,

worry about The Holy. Fear God-of-the-Angel-Armies.

The Holy can be either a Hiding Place

or a Boulder blocking your way,

The Rock standing in the willful way

of both houses of Israel,

A barbed-wire Fence preventing trespass

to the citizens of Jerusalem.

Many of them are going to run into that Rock

and get their bones broken,

Get tangled up in that barbed wire

and not get free of it.”

Gather up the testimony,

preserve the teaching for my followers,

While I wait for God as long as he remains in hiding,

while I wait and hope for him.

I stand my ground and hope,

I and the children God gave me as signs to Israel,

Warning signs and hope signs from God-of-the-Angel-Armies,

who makes his home in Mount Zion.

When people tell you, “Try out the fortunetellers.

Consult the spiritualists.

Why not tap into the spirit-world,

get in touch with the dead?”

Tell them, “No, we’re going to study the Scriptures.”

People who try the other ways get nowhere—a dead end!

Frustrated and famished,

they try one thing after another.

When nothing works out they get angry,

cursing first this god and then that one,

Looking this way and that,

up, down, and sideways—and seeing nothing,

A blank wall, an empty hole.

They end up in the dark with nothing.

The Scroll of Isaiah, Chapter 8 (The Message)

and Today’s paired chapter with this from the ancient Letter of First Corinthians:

[The Mystery of Sex]

I also received a report of scandalous sex within your church family, a kind that wouldn’t be tolerated even outside the church: One of your men is sleeping with his stepmother. And you’re so above it all that it doesn’t even faze you! Shouldn’t this break your hearts? Shouldn’t it bring you to your knees in tears? Shouldn’t this person and his conduct be confronted and dealt with?

I’ll tell you what I would do. Even though I’m not there in person, consider me right there with you, because I can fully see what’s going on. I’m telling you that this is wrong. You must not simply look the other way and hope it goes away on its own. Bring it out in the open and deal with it in the authority of Jesus our Master. Assemble the community—I’ll be present in spirit with you and our Master Jesus will be present in power. Hold this man’s conduct up to public scrutiny. Let him defend it if he can! But if he can’t, then out with him! It will be totally devastating to him, of course, and embarrassing to you. But better devastation and embarrassment than damnation. You want him on his feet and forgiven before the Master on the Day of Judgment.

Your flip and callous arrogance in these things bothers me. You pass it off as a small thing, but it’s anything but that. Yeast, too, is a “small thing,” but it works its way through a whole batch of bread dough pretty fast. So get rid of this “yeast.” Our true identity is flat and plain, not puffed up with the wrong kind of ingredient. The Messiah, our Passover Lamb, has already been sacrificed for the Passover meal, and we are the Unraised Bread part of the Feast. So let’s live out our part in the Feast, not as raised bread swollen with the yeast of evil, but as flat bread—simple, genuine, unpretentious.

I wrote you in my earlier letter that you shouldn’t make yourselves at home among the sexually promiscuous. I didn’t mean that you should have nothing at all to do with outsiders of that sort. Or with crooks, whether blue- or white-collar. Or with spiritual phonies, for that matter. You’d have to leave the world entirely to do that! But I am saying that you shouldn’t act as if everything is just fine when a friend who claims to be a Christian is promiscuous or crooked, is flip with God or rude to friends, gets drunk or becomes greedy and predatory. You can’t just go along with this, treating it as acceptable behavior. I’m not responsible for what the outsiders do, but don’t we have some responsibility for those within our community of believers? God decides on the outsiders, but we need to decide when our brothers and sisters are out of line and, if necessary, clean house.

The Letter of First Corinthians, Chapter 5 (The Message)

and this chapter certainly ties in with chapter 6 from tomorrow’s reading on the True nature of “Oneness” created by the sexual bond in Love:

And how dare you take each other to court! When you think you have been wronged, does it make any sense to go before a court that knows nothing of God’s ways instead of a family of Christians? The day is coming when the world is going to stand before a jury made up of followers of Jesus. If someday you are going to rule on the world’s fate, wouldn’t it be a good idea to practice on some of these smaller cases? Why, we’re even going to judge angels! So why not these everyday affairs? As these disagreements and wrongs surface, why would you ever entrust them to the judgment of people you don’t trust in any other way?

I say this as bluntly as I can to wake you up to the stupidity of what you’re doing. Is it possible that there isn’t one levelheaded person among you who can make fair decisions when disagreements and disputes come up? I don’t believe it. And here you are taking each other to court before people who don’t even believe in God! How can they render justice if they don’t believe in the God of justice?

These court cases are an ugly blot on your community. Wouldn’t it be far better to just take it, to let yourselves be wronged and forget it? All you’re doing is providing fuel for more wrong, more injustice, bringing more hurt to the people of your own spiritual family.

Don’t you realize that this is not the way to live? Unjust people who don’t care about God will not be joining in his kingdom. Those who use and abuse each other, use and abuse sex, use and abuse the earth and everything in it, don’t qualify as citizens in God’s kingdom. A number of you know from experience what I’m talking about, for not so long ago you were on that list. Since then, you’ve been cleaned up and given a fresh start by Jesus, our Master, our Messiah, and by our God present in us, the Spirit.

Just because something is technically legal doesn’t mean that it’s spiritually appropriate. If I went around doing whatever I thought I could get by with, I’d be a slave to my whims.

You know the old saying, “First you eat to live, and then you live to eat”? Well, it may be true that the body is only a temporary thing, but that’s no excuse for stuffing your body with food, or indulging it with sex. Since the Master honors you with a body, honor him with your body!

God honored the Master’s body by raising it from the grave. He’ll treat yours with the same resurrection power. Until that time, remember that your bodies are created with the same dignity as the Master’s body. You wouldn’t take the Master’s body off to a whorehouse, would you? I should hope not.

There’s more to sex than mere skin on skin. Sex is as much spiritual mystery as physical fact. As written in Scripture, “The two become one.” Since we want to become spiritually one with the Master, we must not pursue the kind of sex that avoids commitment and intimacy, leaving us more lonely than ever—the kind of sex that can never “become one.” There is a sense in which sexual sins are different from all others. In sexual sin we violate the sacredness of our own bodies, these bodies that were made for God-given and God-modeled love, for “becoming one” with another. Or didn’t you realize that your body is a sacred place, the place of the Holy Spirit? Don’t you see that you can’t live however you please, squandering what God paid such a high price for? The physical part of you is not some piece of property belonging to the spiritual part of you. God owns the whole works. So let people see God in and through your body.

The Letter of First Corinthians, Chapter 6 (The Message)

my reading from the Scriptures for may 30, day 72 of Spring as a mirroring of the alphabetic number 72 of the word “marriage” as well as being day 150 of the year to conclude the book of Psalms:

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shadowdianne · 7 years

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SWenTRash - well if you ever want to here's it - the one where they both are room mates and have alternate lives as a hero and villain and they Boggs fight each other unknowingly and then tend to each other's wounds as roommates and are slowly falling in love. (Does it make sense ?) I really loved this and this with SWANQUEEN is gonna be super adorkable

It’s not multichaptered idea but I hope you like it ;)

Thank you for it

A03 version

“The Savior and The Queenhave been seen fighting over Storybrooke rooftops. Could this be anotherchapter on their feud? After last year situation with The Dark Savior bothsupers hadn’t been seen together and one can do nothing but wonder what may havespurred this encounter. Witness have reported that the aura that normallysurrounds the Queen has turned into a slightly paler purple. Is this perhaps asymbol that the former dark enchantress is losing her edge? More at nine!”

Emma switched the TV with a groan as she threwthe remote to the couch cushion’s she had been resting on until then. Her headthrobbed as well as her ribs and her right hand. Her knuckles were no longer cakedwith the layer of slowly drying blood she had cleaned after entering in theapartment but they were still red and swollen from where she had tried her bestto clean up the gashes on her skin. Hissing and pushing her tongue against herteeth as she maneuvered her body once again she threw a nasty look to the nowunlit TV.

“Losing her edge?” She mocked, her good handtouching her ribs cautiously. They ached but nothing like they had done before.At least she now could breathe. Fortunately, it seemed that her powers werealready kicking in. “It didn’t feel like it when she was kicking my ass.”

Emma knew that her anger was misplaced but themention of the Dark Savior had made her clench her teeth until she had felt hergums hurt; the month and a half she had been transformed into her evil personahad almost rendered Storybrooke into chaos and it had in fact been the Queenthe one who had stepped out. Which it may have been strange for the media butnot for Emma herself.

As much as she despised having her ass handledevery other time the two of them sparred, Emma had learnt to respect her enemy;most villains tried to destroy whatever they wanted to destroy while whisperingdark threats as they walked up and down Storybrooke’s streets. The Queen,however, had appeared even before Emma had decided to try the suit and hiddenpersona. She had a twisted moral and owned some formidable powers but, just asshe had those, she also had a code. One Emma had briefly seen through her darkdays when the woman had reached to her, asking her to come back from where shehad let herself fall. Begrudgingly, she had needed to admit that the Queen wasnot the woman she had thought she was and so they had let the other do theirthing while they remained on their lane. A peace offering of shorts.

Until today.

Moving carefully, she reached for the coldcompress she had made just as she had pealed her suit out of her bruised body,the red leather of her doublet still glowing faintly from where the Queen hadgrabbed and pushed her; tendrils of magic had crawled up Emma’s skin before thefull impact had thrown Emma away. Applying the compress on her ribs and lettingout another hiss, she closed her eyes just as she checked her own powers, theslowly -but still quicker than normal- stitching her flesh.

Not a second after she let her body fall backon the couch the main door of the dimly lighted apartment opened quietly, thepitter patter of the rain that had been falling nonstop during the entireafternoon becoming stronger for a second as Emma let out a growl. Opening herright eye just in time to catch her flatmate’s profile before she turned tolook at her, one brow raising almost immediately as brown eyes fell on the wayshe kept nursing her side, she nodded slowly from where she was, trying herbest to look as good as new and failing considering how Regina’s eyes widened.

“Gym again?” Regina asked, approaching thecouch, the sound of her stilettos against the floorboard echoing behind her. Ithad always amazed Emma how the other woman could go to work with those andnever come back with a sprained ankle and she, in fact, had asked her about ita month after starting to live together, almost three years ago. The brunettehad laughed for the first time after that and sipped on her drink whilewhispering “magic”. The drink had been wine if Emma’s memory served her right.

“Yeah… tried to lift more than I could.” Shereplied trying not too hard on rolling her eyes at the white lie. It had becomeher usual explanation; gym and her disastrous luck with the equipment on it. Sofar it had worked and her powers allowed her to go to the actual gym with herbody as good as new. Not that she was obsessed with gym of course.

(Perhaps a little.)

Clicking he tongue, the brunette sat on thecouch while picking the remote, holding it on her left hand as her right hovered overEmma’s bruised fingers. Shivering as she could feel the woman’s blunt fingersalmost tracing her skin, the blonde hero closed her eyes for a second beforethe sound of the TV being switched on again made her blink while exhalingloudly.

“Want me to take a look at that?” She heard ather side.

At first neither Regina or she had consideredthe other interesting enough to be more than the woman they shared a roof with.However, as time had passed and Emma had learnt about the woman’s terriblerelationship with her mother and Regina herself had been there when Emma hadgotten the letter from the adoption facility she had been put back when she hadbeen a toddler with the harsh “Sorry, there is nothing we can do” writtenbetween fake polite words that had done nothing to assuage the blonde’s pain, theyhad found themselves trusting in each other, becoming friends. Or somethingclose to that. Ruby had told Emma more than once that she needed to kiss Reginaone of those nights they used the excuse of no work the day after to drink untileverything that was left of them were wandering eyes and even more wanderinghands. Emma, however, could be The Savior but chickened out every time.

And something like that happened in that momentas she stared at Regina’s concerned eyes.

“I’m good.” She grunted just as Regina’s lipsopened, halting in mid-movement before curving into a soft smile as the woman noddedturned her attention fully towards the TV.

“Watching the news again?” Regina asked whiletilting her head, eyes narrowed as she saw the clip of The Savior and the Queenfighting. The video had definetely been taken by a phone and the glowing auraof the Queen seemed slightly blurred as she moved back and forth from TheSavior’s attacks. The brunette words were laced with criticism and Emma noddedslowly as she probed her ribs once again; tender but definetely better than afew minutes prior. Excellent.

“They could say something interesting.” She replied,smiling smugly at Regina. The brunette, however, seemed more invested on theclip of the fight, now on loop.

In the video The Savior had just used her ownpower to push The Queen to her left. The black-clothed woman, however, had usedher magic to propulse herself back to where she had been standing a few secondsprior, kicking the Savior on the ribs and retreating before the masked blonde coulddo anything about it.

On her couch Emma felt a blush dusting hercheeks, embarrassment of having been caught with such a cheap trick growinginside of her. On the other hand, Regina hummed, eyes trained on The Queen’smovements as she landed back on the rooftop’s surface.

“Too hasty.” She commented. “She could havedone better.”

Emma’s head snapped; it had been a long timesince she had heard Regina talk about either her alter ego or the villain. Lasttime, perhaps, it had been when she had come from her room after been returnedback to normal, Dark Savior gone and hair still white while trembles cursed herbody. Regina had been checking something on the kitchen’s table and hadsuggested to see anything on the TV, never once pressing Emma to speak to her.The blonde had passed out that night next to the other woman’s side, allresidue of the dark magic power gone from her by morning.

“Youthink so?” She asked. “I think she did a pretty good job.”

That was another part of their banters; Reginaseemed to truly hate the Queen’s fight style and even though Emma technically didn’tlike the other super it was undeniable for her the woman’s ability to fight.

“Savior had certainly improved I think. Queenover-did that last curse.”

Which, now that Emma looked at it, at the waythe arcane symbols appeared around the woman’s fingers before transforming intothe tendrils she was so accustom to by now, she thought that it could be true.However, a villain with the name of the Queen had its own right to over-did itfrom time to time, at least on her book.

Regina laughed at that observation and caughther wounded hand, rendering Emma useless. As usual, the blonde felt a suddenprickling sensation on her skin, one that made her shiver as Regina looked atthe wounds, now much less worrying-looking than before.

“You’re a disaster.” The brunette mutteredsoftly and Emma had to chuckle at that.

“And dinner is on you.” She replied instead. “Idid it yesterday.”

“I think I recall some burnt chicken. Yes.”

Emma stuck out her tongue just as Regina getrid of her high-heeled shoes. Sighing, the blonde watched as the slightly olderwoman closed her eyes in pleasure, hands caressing her calves as she did so.

Someday, she promised herself, not seeingRegina’s closed fists as her magic crackled just beneath the skin nor the woman’swarm glance on her direction. Someday she would tell Regina.

Just… not today.

#swan queen #anon #prompt #sqtrash

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whiskeyintheflask · 7 years

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November 7, 2014 - The Tractor

This night, with her, in this tractor, as we engage in wild trancelike bouts of breathless lovemaking, is cutting so deep into my soul that I must be fully losing myself in the moment, risking the possibility of never finding myself ever again. To be fully immersed in someone else is to forget who and where you are entirely; to be so completely occupied with all that is coursing outside and within that you have no time to think or perceive what is really going on. You forget the envisioning of what could have been and everything else that will be because you are, in its most basic sense, residing in the inherent grandiosity of the now. You’re not living anymore; you’re dreaming. For a moment, the city, the mountains, and the sky were breathless, and it was just me and her in the entire universe. We flourish in one explosive bang, emitting soft moans that ascended in stirring harmony towards the misty-eyed moon; even the blinking stars must have been listening in enchantment. We sit there for a fleeting moment, both of us hugging in quiet perfection and holding each other’s hands like our lives depended on it as we listen to the hum of the crickets and the low undertone of the faint incessant traffic down yonder.

“It kind of scares me how great this is going. This is too good to be true. I just want to enjoy every single moment with you because I know that all this rose-tinted magic will inevitably fade out someday, somehow,” she says in a precautionary way, looking at me with those eyes that are always aglow with curiosity.

“Why do you say so?”, I reply.

“I don’t know, it scares me because it almost feels too perfect, so I’m out here constantly anticipating something bad to happen. I know it’s wrong to do so, but I’ve just been so used to conflict that the lack of it worries me. What if we are bound to be just like everyone else? That’s the way it always works.”

Then I answer, “I’d rather not succumb to such a pessimistic perspective. This scares me, not because of the possibility that all these magical sensations are impermanent, but rather because of the truth that this is the realest feeling I have ever felt in a long, long time.”

She takes a moment’s pause, swallowing several times distractedly. I can tell that she is muttering something under her breath, and I am also quite sure that she can feel my hands trembling a little.

Then she says, “but I am just being realistic.”

I close my eyes.

Deep in the darkest trenches of my heart, I know, absolutely and unguardedly, that what she said is not true. There are some feelings that you can fake and gloss over, and there are some that you cannot deny to yourself no matter what it is that you do. I have no doubt that my feelings reside in the latter. I know that I will retain the loyalty of her feelings in never failing to prove her wrong. In the delusion of my ego, amidst the absurdity and humanity of everything that is occurring as of the moment, it seems indubitable to me that this emotion I am feeling is as genuine and true as the stars above. This is the realest I have ever felt in a long time. Oh, if only I could convey to her how these feelings that have unconsciously remained locked inside me for years are killing me to the point of exhaustion. She impressed an instinct on my mind I cannot seem to understand; a sudden impulse to allow myself to be seduced by the heart-haunting symphony of my emotions, puncturing my bulletproof heart like an inflated wheel and rendering me defenseless. In the deepness of every beating heart, there is a cavern that holds its receptacles within itself. The restlessness, the endless hours of work, the glamour of life and all the merriments can lead us to disremember its actual presence, but it is during times like this that the tightly sealed vessels stored inside of it are flung wide into the open. It is on occasions like this that you lose sense of what you thought you stood for, because this is one of those moments when your heart makes an insuperable decision to wash over your very being, unleashing feelings from a vault you have long forgotten to reopen. Coincidentally, you painlessly resign to it because you have become blind, softheaded and unquestioning to your own self. The heart that I have been neglecting for a long time has now assassinated the captain of my brain that is devoid of emotion, and it has taken full command of my ship. I know that I will regain my senses when the magic subsides, but when that does happen, I will realize that it is too late to pull myself back into who I once was because I have apparently undergone a metamorphosis of an intrinsic kind; the mysterious feeling that took over me and possessed my soul now belongs to the essential nature of my existence, and I can no longer live without it because it has become the chief of my entire being. At this moment, I know, I just know for some reason, that everything about this person beside me was formed to delight my senses. So I choose to go on, to trudge along the world, and live through my days walking under the spellbinding hypnosis that the cavern induced upon me. What is, is. I give in to it, wholeheartedly and free from all hesitation. Is it my fault? Yes, it is. My comfort zone would tell me that I should have put my guard up. Do I regret it? No. Not at all. You never really end up regretting it when you let the unpitying forces of your heart win over the tough, sober part of yourself. During these few cycloramic seconds, I can understand more by my eyes than I could ever have deciphered with my running thoughts. I am realizing that my strength, along with the large supply of galvanic battery that powers it, is just a facade for my weakness. This protective layer that usually shields me can be easily scraped away by what lies inside, this organ shielded by my ribs, whenever it wants to without deliberation, leaving me face to face with the truth, unarmed and helpless. It can take the main stage without me consciously meaning them to. There is no escaping its talons, because the option to retreat inwards is no longer there. Even if I attempt to do so, I know that my heart will just wrestle me to submission. I have lost an indispensable part of myself in this transaction: my invincibility; but hell, Abulafia, this ungraspable feeling is worth every single risk I am taking. This girl is perplexing me. She is killing me, rather. I have never felt this so powerfully as to be so frail and unable to resist it, and it frightens and mesmerizes all in one breath. Still, like everything else that kills me, be it the grind of the gym or the enchantment of alcohol, she makes me feel alive; more alive than I am really ever supposed to be. I find in her the same kind of joyous power that I find only in my passions. How was this enigmatic energy able to permeate its way into a living and breathing human being? I certainly believe that this is not an accident; everything about me and her feels like the snap of two puzzle pieces finally conjoining after a long era of separation. My inner world used to be filled with nebulous shades of gray, filled with complexity and mental turmoil, but now it is a paradise of blue, and I am sitting somewhere over the lovely arch of a rainbow.

In the middle of the short silence and the golden ocean of energy pervading the scene, as we listen to the peaceful hum of existence without the sound of wind and heartbeat, she suddenly whispers, “yet I do believe that you will prove me wrong, like you always do.”

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djmjukebox · 7 years

Text

Impressed by the Mixxx, DJ?

by Sagar Mody (DJM)

REVIEW BOTTOM LINE: Mixxx 2.00- A FREE, open source DJ software that is not just for beginners and radio shows anymore, it is good for DJs on a budget and even good enough for many professional DJs.

RATING: 4/5

COMPATIBLE: Windows, Linux, Mac OS

PRICE: FREE

The minute we think DJ today, we think digital and that's right because one way or the other, there is something digital involved in most setups. All the logistics and hardwork required in the days gone by seems alien to most younger DJs and producers today. Powerful DJ and music production software has become the choice of the trade, where most of the hardware is simulated and in recent years it has been perfected furthermore, making it a replacement for carrying bulky gear, vinyls or CDs. Although, the cost of the old ways was very high and moving to digital greatly reduces it, professional software and hardware still costs a decent amount. The most popular DJ softwares out there demand no less than £80 for being nearly fully functional and usually to be featured further, the licenses can cost upto £200 or more. Then there is the dilemma of buying hardware that comes with a software license but that software may have its limitations for you and vice versa. What if someone told you, there is a fully featured software, you can install and use for FREE without limitations? Unbelievable? Not quite... welcome to Mixxx DJ! It is an open source music software available for Windows, Mac OS and Linux! (no joke!). Mixxx has been around in beta (1.110) for a long while but recently they released 2.00 and boy is it good! Whilst Mixxx 1.110 was just fine for basic mixing, load tracks, beat mix and looping, 2.00 takes it to level par with the big boys.

Compatibility and Cost

The monopoly in DJ software is held by a few, namely the top 3 : Traktor by Native Instruments, Serato DJ and Virtual DJ. At least these are the ones you'll have heard of if you aren't a DJ but the list does not end there. There is great software choice like, DJAY by Agoriddim (admittedly for Mac and tablets only), Rekordbox DJ by Pioneer (recently released with an aim to take over the software market), Mixvibes Cross DJ (brilliant and underrated) and Deckadance DJ.They each are set apart slightly by the performance oriented features and packages they offer.

All the above have their pros and cons and it would be a matter of a whole other article to discuss them. What is of importance is that they all cost money or come included when you buy hardware built for them. Whilst Traktor can be mapped to just about any MIDI controller, Serato DJ can't (you need Serato certified hardware). Virtual DJ and Cross boast the widest 'plug and play' compatibility to most hardware you're likely to come across. What Mixxx has in its bag is, a community which contributes to its progress and also to making more maps available for popular hardware. It isn't quite 'plug and play' but it isn't very difficult to get a controller from the list of those supported (apparently over 85) working in minutes. For something that costs £0, that is really good. What's more? Mixxx supports DVS with timecode with your existing Serato or Traktor DVS soundboxes.

That answers the question of compatibility but surely a FREE software, designed by a community can't come close to the 'paid-for' big boys, can it? I would say, with 2.00 Mixxx has come very close to the big boys. There are still some things that aren't just that bit perfect, for instance effects just don't sound right (to my ears at least) but for most other things you can think of, in my opinion Mixxx is on par or in some cases better!

Features

1. Skins and UI: Let's get this out of the way shall we? Skins is a love or hate thing! Virtual DJ lovers look at being able to customize and skin the DJ software as an essential function whilst those who play Serato or Traktor couldn't care less. However, skinning isn't just for making something look beautiful (the way you think it is, after all beauty is in the eye of the beholder or so they say). Skinning is extremely useful for different use cases, for example somebody using a mixdeck for radio won't need the same items displayed as a DJ would. Mixxx supports xml and css based skinning and comes with 3 very clean and useable skins which render beautifully on medium power hardware as well. Just like anything else in Mixxx, the UI and the resources used for drawing the waveforms is customizable in the preferences.

2. Waveforms: They weren't nearly good in 1.110 but in 2.00 the waveforms are brilliant. You can choose your framerate, RGB, filtered or monotone waves. Depending on the skin you can have them on each deck or you can stack them! They render cleanly, look sharp and scroll intuitively. There is great detail in them too and you can see the differences in the frequencies of the sound you are playing. I can compare them to all three, Traktor, Serato and Virtual DJ and say that I like these alot, the best for me being Traktor so far closely followed by Virtual DJ. Infact for those who have given Cross DJ (Mixvibes) a spin, these will remind you of those. (Why not Serato? Someday I'll write an article about that too- the programmers at Serato simply ignore Windows as a platform which is why the software is mostly ported from Mac OS to Windows. This has left a glaring error in waveform rendering and even in 2017 you have to deal with choppy and laggy waves even on premium hardware. There is plenty of discussion about this on the Serato forum and most folk even have trouble with this on certain Mac Books.)

3. Transport, Loops, Cues and Mixer: Mixxx has everything you have come to expect from a useful DJ software: Loops upto 64 beats, 8 hot cues, quantize, keylock, independent pitch control, slip mode, per channel filters, vinyl view and control and beat grid with full editing possibility. The best thing is, most of the functionality and emulation is customizable in the preferences. For example, you can select your transport behaviour to be like Pioneer hardware or Numark hardware etc. Options are also available for mixer behaviour and Vinyl (pitchbend) behaviour. Mixxx boasts one of the best Vinyl emulation engines to make your controller gigs sound just right. The EQs are great and you can customize just how much of suppression or kill you want, and also exactly where. Let's not forget, if you run short of options, you can contribute to the software yourself and build options (assuming you know your way around coding).

4. Track decks, Sample decks and Effects: Mixxx has upto 8 sample decks available, which can be triggered as normal. You can have upto 4 normal track decks in addition to the samples. The software comes with a handful built-in effects and 4 effect decks which gives you either superficial or more in depth control for each effect. The effects and the way they work, leaves a lot to be desired but this is only the one place I have found Mixxx to fall short.

5. Library functions: This, in my opinion is the clincher. Whilst Virtual DJ has a very hassle free system of directly accessing your PC folders for the library and it used to be my favorite, I have come to like the Traktor library management system. Once the inital pain of adding and analysis is over with, Traktor does it all automatically from then on when you add to the collection. As for search, Traktor is extremely powerful there too! Serato on the other hand has the worst library management system, in that it doesn't have one- if you organise your music in iTunes, Serato uses that but otherwise if you want to organise independantly within Serato, it is a bit of a pain.

Once again, not going into too much detail and coming back to Mixxx- Mixxx is as good as Traktor. In version 2.00 Mixxx can pull your Traktor playlists, iTunes playlists and Rhythmbox (Linux users) playlists as is and they will appear in your browser already. As for adding and making a collection in Mixxx, it is extremely simple- just select watch folders and it will automatically add from there everytime you start up Mixxx. The track analysis engine is fantastic and if you're coming from Traktor, it can use most of the Traktor analysis already. Search is strong- you can search for tracks with a humanly understandable command line. For example, location: 'folder-name' will display all songs in that folder! This works for most of the tags like artist, track, album etc. Mixxx allows full editing of your music tags and will also pull relevant information from the MusicBrainz dastabase if you want it to. Also worth mentioning, that ALL of the functions in Mixxx including browsing (mainly jumping between browse and search) can be achieved using just the keyboard without ever having to touch the mouse. Between your keyboard and your controller, all of Mixxx can be navigated.

In Use

In the mix, Mixxx is intuitive and powerful- coming from Traktor to use this for a test, I've had no learning curve or needed time investment for getting music analysed and onto Mixxx. It took me 10 minutes from activating the Pioneer DDJ-SB2 with Mixxx, getting my music from Traktor and selecting my UI settings to start mixing. As the DDJ-SB2 is one of the supported controllers, all I had to do was select it from the drop down list in preferances and go. It is good to know that there is a mapping software within Mixxx that will allow you to create new maps or customise the current one (like Virtual DJ and Traktor). Once on the roll, I found myself getting carried away mixing without problems and I hardly noticed the change of software (unless when trying to use effects!). It is easy to mix and perform with Mixxx including the use of samples and things like loop roll. The mixes are easily recordable as well, in the format of your choice. The options to select multiple soundcards is easy if you aren't using a controller or hardware but simply trying to use a splitter cable or a secondary USB soundcard for cueing. This will make it super easy for beginner and hobby DJs to start mixing without having to buy or get involved in expensive hardware.

Conclusion

All in all, Mixxx is a pleasant experience and the fact that it is FREE, enforces one of my personal motto's- 'All you need to mix well is basic controls and ears'- add to that a free software with waveforms and perfomance functions and you're a lucky DJ. The team at Mixxx has done a fantastic job with 2.00 and the community of Mixxx as well, in having provided so much compatibility to popular hardware already, including the most popular CDJs for MIDI/HID control. The bottom line on Mixxx- A FREE, open source DJ software that is not just for beginners and radio shows anymore, it is good for DJs on a budget and even good enough for many professional DJs.

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